bottled grace
by QuietLittleVoices
Summary: Some primal instinct tells you that touching him skin on skin would burn you; some primal instinct tells you to reach out and test that theory. ((Dean/Cas; Canon; general s9 spoilers, nothing specific; 2nd Person POV Dean))


**A/N:** i'm not sure what this is but enjoy

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There's something boiling under his skin, something that can barely be contained by a human form. You know it's Grace, the purest form of divine wrath, but sometimes the boiling subsides and you forget. You never forget when you're touching him and can _feel_ the heat against you, even through both your layers of clothing. Some primal instinct tells you that touching him skin on skin would burn you; some primal instinct tells you to reach out and test that theory.

When he's falling, the first time, the water's gone lukewarm. You touch him, and it's like touching pavement that's been in the sun too long, nothing more. It's not the surface of the sun, it's not Baby's engine after being on the road all day in August. It's just warmth – safety, protection – not heat. When you kiss him it's like the coming together of orbiting planets that are too far to feel the full heat of the sun. It's addictive and you don't stop until he starts boiling again.

When he inhales the souls from Purgatory, you have to watch as the boiling inside him nearly breaks him apart. There are burns on his skin from trying to keep himself in check, and you can feel the heat steaming up the room when you're with him. It's like you're trapped in a sauna, but he's just a man, just an angel, but he's calling himself a god. The boiling subsides when you think he's dead but there's still a heat that tells you he's alive and you want to kiss him, want to revisit what you had, but you don't because you know that's not what he needs. You know that it won't help him, so you don't do it, even though it would help you.

But then the Leviathan take over and he's not boiling anymore – the opposite, actually. It's like he's taking the warmth from around him, making everything cold as ice. And then he was gone, with hardly a word. You save his trenchcoat from the water, but it doesn't hold any of his warmth. You keep it anyway, a dangerous hope that you know you shouldn't hold. And when you find him again, he's set on a quiet boil, like a pot that's been forgotten on the stove. You awake the heat inside him, but it disappears almost as soon as it's come, and Sammy's Hell brings him down to cold. More than anything, you wish that things could have been different.

And then they are. You watch as the Grace starts to bubble up inside him when you're going to take down Dick, and for those first few seconds in Purgatory you nearly burned from how close you are to the sheer power that's coming from the inhuman man beside you. When he leaves, you're cold, but when you find him again, you wrap him up in our arms even though it burns. Because he's worth it, and you're so elated that you've found him again.

You wish you were surprised when he left you, but his leaving has become more a certainty than his staying. You're upset, you can admit that much, but you're not surprised. (You are surprised that he pushed you away, and you're surprised that you're brain remade that memory, but you're not surprised at his absence).

When you tell him you need him, face bloody and swollen, you really mean something else. You mean to tell him that the heat off his skin could cauterize your wounds and warm up your soul; that the boiling inside him could calm down if he'd just come back to you. You mean to tell him that you love him, but none of those things come out. His warmth disappears, when you really thought he'd stay, and you're left alone in the cold crypt, mended but broken.

And then he's fallen from Grace and he's… empty. He's not hot or cold, but there's nothing there under the surface. It doesn't matter; you're just happy to see him. Until you have to tell him to go, and you watch what little light was in his eyes die.

When you see him again, you can't take your eyes off him. It strikes you how much your love for him has changed, but not in a bad way. It breaks your heart, but that's how you know it's real. You love him, you really do, and he can't know. Not yet, at least; maybe not ever. You don't think you mind.

The stolen Grace he consumes is like dirty water, boiling but putrid. It's eating at him from the inside out, poisoning him. You can't do anything but watch, because you know that this is all your fault. You wish that you could have changed things.

It ends so suddenly that you barely even notice. A quiet sigh, a whispered word, and then you're there. Alone. Except you aren't, because there's an angry red mark still glowing faintly on your arm and he's there, breathing heavy and watching you. You can't feel his Grace from where you stand, but something tells you that it's boiled out. The rotten Grace has gone, and this is just him that's left in front of you.

"You love me," you say, your voice quietly reverent. It was meant to be a question but the words make themselves a certainty.

He doesn't say anything, just nods. You mirror his action.

"Good," you say, because it is. The blade in your hand clatters to the ground and suddenly you're crumbling, the adrenaline leaving you all at once as you collapse. But his arms are there to hold you up, and you hope that, as you lose consciousness, you manage to echo his sentiment.

Your hazy mind tells you that it's okay; you have all the time in the world.


End file.
